


Tattoos of Blue

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Series: Shades of Grey [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomas Hertl has an eventful first three months in the NHL.  He makes the Sharks out of training camp, scores four goals in his third game, and destroys his knee two months later.  Oh, and he forms a soul bond with Joe Thornton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoos of Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> This was written for [spock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spock) for the [M/M Rares Challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/MM_Rares_2014/profile). I hope you like it! 
> 
> Quick note on Tomas' speech patterns: I initially wrote this completely emulating Tomas' broken English. It was very hard to read. So, now, I've struck a balance - he doesn't have perfect grammar/sentence structure, but it's understandable. 
> 
> This takes place in the same universe as [Home Will Wait](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1233001), but was written to stand on it’s own, so need to read that one first.
> 
> Title from Joni Mitchell’s beautiful song [“Blue.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5782PQO5is)

Tomas has an eventful first three months in the NHL.

He makes the Sharks out of training camp, and, when Raffi Torres goes down, Todd even puts him on the top line. He slips back and forth between Czech and English when he calls his parents to tell them the news. They laugh at him, but, they do that a lot.

In his third game, he scores four goals. He has the hats to prove it, laid out artistically in a glass case in his living room. He tries to use them as a pick-up line. It doesn’t really work.

On December 19, he tears his PCL and MCL, requiring almost-season-ending surgery. 

And, somewhere in there, he soulbonds with Joe Thornton.

***

It starts small. Just flashes of Sharks-blue at the back of his mind.

“You okay?” Marty asks, his voice low, the language of their homeland rolling comfortingly off his tongue.

Tomas flashes him a guilty smile. “Ano, yes.” He runs his finger over the rim of his beer. “It is strange, to be underage. I have been drinking for many years.”

Marty laughs. “Americans have many strange customs. Don’t get used to them.” He glances up, catching Tomas’ eye and nodding his chin in the direction of the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, Tomas can see Joe slipping the bartender a $20, before heading towards their table.

Tomas grins. Marty sighs.

“And don’t let people know I bought you alcohol.”

“Don’t worry, I can be quite distracting.” Marty opens his mouth, as if he wants to argue, but Tomas is already smiling at Joe, slipping, as seamlessly as a bull in a china shop, into English. “Captain.”

“Hertl.” Joe takes the seat next to him, resting his arm along the back of Tomas’ chair. He radiates heat, and the back of Tomas’ neck feels warm as bright greys and purples dance at the back of his mind. Joe raises an eyebrow. “Beer?”

Tomas shrugs, leaning forward in his chair and batting his eyelashes at Joe. “Is good, for relax.”

Across the table, Marty chokes on his drink. Tomas ignores him.

He puts a hand on the edge of Joe’s chair and Joe jumps, pressing his legs together and away from Tomas’ body. His eyes are wide. “I- ahh, relaxing is good. We don’t want our rookies to be, um, stressed, or-”

Tomas’ mind is burning in deep blues and oranges.

Joe reaches up to touch the back of his neck. “Oh,” he says, his voice low, a little gravely, and for one, quick, surprising moment, Tomas wonders how far he can push. But then Joe is pushing out of his chair and wiping his hands on his shorts. “I’ve gotta go. Early practice.”

Tomas tries not to feel too disappointed about that. It’s pretty hard.

“Dobrou noc.” Then, when Marty kicks him under the table, he translates, “Good night.”

Marty doesn’t move his ankle from Tomas’ and, once Joe’s gone, he stabs Tomas, hard.

“Fuck.” Tomas frowns. “Enough with the violence.”

“Language.” Marty raises his eyes upwards. “They couldn’t have sent me a nice, well-behaved, Czech boy?”

Tomas shrugs. “You like me.”

“Jury’s still out.”

That’s not a _no_. Tomas grins.

***

“What do you remember about soulbonds?”

Over their Skype connection, Jaroslav rolls his eyes. “Did you pay any attention in Ms. Biel’s health class?”

Tomas stops, halfway out of his shorts. It’s early in San Jose, late in Zvolen where Jaroslav is playing in the Slovakian league, and he just got back from his morning run, meant to cure him of the claustrophobia induced by hotel living. He settles on, “I remember talking about condoms a lot,” because, really, that was the gist of health class. At least, how we remembers it.

“There was more to it than that, bratříčku.” _Little brother_.

“So,” Tomas urges, stepping the rest of the way out of his shorts and throwing them in the direction of the laundry basket. “Enlighten me.”

“Not until you put some clothes on.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care.”

Tomas sighs, but reaches for a pair of Sharks shorts and pulls them over his hips. They’re a few sizes too big, and he rolls the waistband down, ignoring the flash of blue in the back of his mind. He must have grabbed them, accidently, from someone else’s bag after yesterday’s training session.

He sits back in the desk chair and motions for Jaroslav to continue. “Soulbonds?”

“Right, so, you remember the Cikáni?”

“Gypsies, yeah.” Tomas has always liked gypsies.

“Yeah, so, they say the soulbond originated as a gypsy curse.”

“A curse?” Tomas tilts his head. “I always thought they were a good thing.”

Jaroslav shrugs. “I don’t know. It takes your freedom out of the equation, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.” He hadn’t ever thought of it like that. Tomas didn’t know many soulbonded pairs growing up, but books and movies always make soulbonds seem nice, comforting. “I always thought it would be useful, knowing exactly what your partner is thinking all the time.”

“It’s not that easy. At least, that’s what Ms. Biel says. You can’t, like, read the person’s mind or anything.”

“Huh.” Tomas quite liked the idea of telepathy. “That’s disappointing.”

“Tomas, bratříčku, why are you asking me about this?”

Tomas shrugs. “Just curious.”

Jaroslav’s eyes narrow. Tomas has always been terrible at lying to him, to anyone, really. “Have you-” He swallows, as if this sounds as crazy to him as it does to Tomas. “Did you bond?”

Tomas considers lying, but, he’s not even sure what he’d be lying about. “I’m not sure.”

“I think you’d know.”

Tomas shrugs. Jaroslav is probably right. “Probably.” Soulbonds aren’t, like, partial things. He’d know. Maybe. Most likely.

***

Tomas forgets all about soulbonds in the excitement of the next few days. He plays his first regular season NHL game, scores his first goal, and gets moved onto the first line with Joe and Burner.

“You’ll tell me if you get overwhelmed?”

Tomas rolls his eyes at Marty. “Yes, táta.” _Dad._

“Spratek,” _hellion_ , Marty says, but there’s little anger in it. Tomas blows him a kiss as he walks out of the locker room.

He scores four goals that night.

“Overwhelmed, huh?” Tomas winks at Marty as he throws his gear into his bag. He feels elated, happy enough to pull Marty into a long, hard hug. The back of his mind flashes shades of blue, _pride_ and _heat_ and _hunger_ , and he thinks, maybe, just maybe- before the reports pile in.

“This is dream,” he tells the reporters, stumbling over the broken shards of his English. “No reality.” He’s not sure, really, if he’s talking about the team, his goals, or the possible bond at the back of his mind.

He doesn’t notice the way Joe’s eyes bare into his neck from across the locker room, and he doesn’t read his quote until much later, long after the team goes out to celebrate and Al and Matt deposit him back in his hotel room. He’s feeling pretty warm, wrapped in a haze of beer and winning and Sharks blue, as he pulls out his phone.

He scrolls through twitter, feeling warmer and happier at the praise for his goals, before pausing on Joe’s quote. “I’d have my cock out if I scored four goals. I’d have my cock out, stroking it.”

Tomas stops. He reads it again. “I’d have my cock out if I scored four goals. I’d have my cock out, stroking it.”

Yep, still the same.

His fingers shake as he clicks on the link, taking him to the Sharks’ NHL page. He watches, not quite sure what to expect, as Joe says the words, straight-faced, a little angry. At the reporter, on Tomas’ behalf, which makes Tomas feel-

He’s not exactly sure what he feels, except turned on. His shirt feels hot against the back of his neck and he’s hard in his dress pants, and a team’s supposed to follow its Captain, right? He reaches down, pressing his palm, hard, against the zipper of his pants.

Feeling a flash of something hot and blue, he arches off the bed, pressing into his hand, and he’s never felt this hard this fast before. Not, at least, since he was thirteen years old, locked in the bathroom, stripping his cock desperately, trying to get off before his parents noticed his absence at the dinner table. He fumbles with his zipper, pulling out his dick and wrapping his fist around it, slipping, momentarily, back to that bathroom as he sets the same, rapid, painful rhythm he used to.

He folds his elbow over his head, lifting his chin so that he can glance down his body, at the way his dick stands pale and hard against the dark of his suit pants. The sounds of his skin, slipping and wet with precome, fill the air and he groans, arching into his fist. He’s bigger, now, then he was when he was thirteen, filling his palm, heavy and pulsing, real. He’s a man now, or, that’s what he tells himself, at least, when he pictures himself like this, laid out on this bed, Marty’s hand over his, squeezing and thrusting.

Blue flares in his mind and the image of Marty slips. Tomas grasps for it, but he’s too far gone, raw, desperate with it, needing, needing- He grabs for a pillow, anything to thrust against, rolling his hips and settling over it, pushing his dick into the crease of soft feathers. It’s not what he wants, not the heat and slick of muscle and skin, but it’s enough, good, even, as he snaps his hips into the mattress, sliding against the pillow and dripping large, clear drops of precome into the cotton.

His shirt is sticking to his lower back, his shoulders, his armpits, the cotton rough against the head of his dick, catching on his up-thrusts. He groans, pushing the pillow up, capturing his dick between the pillow and the wool of his clothing, harsh and a little painful when his zipper catches. He reaches down, undoing the button on his pants, pushing the fabric out of his way, and then he’s thrusting, grunting and pushing down against the pillow, gripping onto the pulsing blue light in his head, and he’s coming, working himself through it, shaking and sweating with the aftershocks for long moments.

In his mind, the blue flashes, pushing back against his mind, sending a flare down his spine, and he lurches forward, forcing another pulse of come into the pillow. “Shit,” he pants, coming down slowly, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes.

He should really get up, take a shower, clean up the mess he’s made. His mind, though, feels calm, swathed in light shades of teal and grey, ocean waves cooling the heat of his skin. So, he tosses the pillow towards the laundry pile and rolls over, wrapping his legs in the quilt and letting himself float, peacefully, in the ocean.

***

It takes Tomas a few weeks to broach the subject with Marty. He waits until they’re mostly alone, halfway through a five-game road trip at the end of October. They’re in Montreal, nursing beers the hotel bar, while most of their teammates spend time with family who have come in from Ontario, Manitoba, and all over Quebec for the game.

“So, ahh,” Tomas starts, before pausing. He’s had this conversation in his head hundreds of times, and, still, what comes out is, “about our soulbond-”

Marty chokes on his beer. “What?”

Tomas shuffles in his seat. He’s sure, now, or, at least, pretty sure. He tightens his jaw and stares at Marty, daring him to deny it. “Our soulbond.”

“We don’t have a soulbond.”

“But,” Tomas frowns, reaching up to grab at the back of his neck, right above his bondcenter. “I felt you, feel you, all the time, since that night we jerked off and-”

“Whoa, whoa, kid, slow down.” Marty holds up a hand. “The night we-?”

“Jerked off, yeah.” Tomas feels his face heat. He had felt the bond, so strongly, surely Marty felt it, too? Right?

Marty’s shaking his head. “What does it feel like, the bond?”

Tomas closes his eyes, wrapping his mind around the bond and trying to express what he’s feeling in words. “It’s always there, in the back of my mind. It’s- blue, or, something, it’s hard to explain, but it’s there. I feel it.” He opens his eyes, staring at Marty, willing him to deny it.

Marty, though, just shakes his head. “Sure sounds like a bond, but, Jesus, Tomas, it’s not- I’m married. I have kids.”

Tomas’ brow furrows. “So, it’s not you.”

“No.”

“Huh.” Tomas doesn’t know what to do now. “I was so sure.”

Marty shrugs. “Bonds, they’re not that simple.”

Which is exactly what Jaroslav had said. Someday, Tomas is going to learn to listen to his brother. He sighs. “I’m getting that, yeah.”

Marty reaches over, patting Tomas’ hand. Nothing flashes in the back of his mind, and he sighs again, sadly. At least he knows he has a bond. That’s more than he was sure of yesterday.

Marty calls their waitress over, orders them something much stronger than Molson, and leans back in their booth, shaking his head. “Jesus, kid, your parents are going to kill me.”

“Sorry,” Tomas offers. Although, he’s not sure what, exactly, he’s apologizing for.

***

Tomas watches the locker room carefully over the next few weeks. He waits for his bondmate to slip up, to lean into his touch or put balloons in his locker or write his name out in pucks or something.

“You’ve seen too many movies,” Jaroslav says, rolling his eyes, when Tomas tells him, finally, in late November.

“I’m just a romantic guy. At heart.”

Jaroslav snorts. “You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“You’ll see. My bondmate’s awesome.”

“How would you know?”

Tomas shrugs. “He is. I can tell.” He motions towards the back of his head, then pauses. Al’s been making him watch _Dexter_ lately, when they’re stuck in the hotel all night, and Dexter has a bondmate and- “Unless- do you think serial killers have bondmates?”

“I don’t see why not?”

“Oh my god.” Images flash through Tomas’ mind, bodies and blood and mangled limbs, and his skin feels hot, feverish. “Will they let me play hockey if I’m bonded to a murderer?”

Jaroslav laughs. “Oh, bratříčku, I’m sure he’s not a murderer.” Tomas opens his mouth, but Jaroslav reads his mind. “Or a criminal of any kind.”

“Oh.”

“But,” and Jaroslav looks thoughtful. It’s usually pretty dangerous when Jaroslav looks thoughtful. “That brings up a good point. You’re assuming your bondmate is also a teammate.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I-” Tomas stops. He’d never considered anything else. “I don’t know anyone else.”

“You don’t have to know them. Bonds can form in many ways, it could have happened just because you’re finally in the same city.”

Tomas’ eyes widen. “You mean, it could be anyone in San Jose?”

“Possibly.”

Tomas groans. Bonding is much harder than Hollywood makes it seem.

***

“I told you this was a terrible idea.” Al sighs, reaching for the ice bucket and wrapping a large handful of ice cubes in a towel. He leans forward, spreading Tomas’ knees and pressing the towel, hard, against Tomas’ chin.

Tomas flinches. The ice is cold and harsh against his bruised skin. “I needed to try.”

“There has to be a better-”

“ – safer – ”

“ – way.”

Tomas stares at them both, Al on his knees in front of Tomas, holding the towel in place, and Matt lounging on the bed behind him, flipping through the channels on the TV and pretending not to send worried glances Tomas’ way every few seconds.

“Joe isn’t going to be happy about this.” Matt settles on HBO’s _Game of Thrones_ marathon, but doesn’t unmute the TV.

“No tell him,” Tomas tries, struggling against his aching jaw and the effort to translate Czech to English in his head.

“You have a fist-shaped bruise on your face,” Al argues. “That’s not something we can hide.”

“Say fight, nothing more.” Tomas argues. “Not- not bond.”

Al’s eyes are dark. He had known this was a bad idea from the start, only reluctantly agreeing to go clubbing when Tomas had promised, profusely, that he wouldn’t be any trouble. In retrospect, Tomas shouldn’t have lied about the whole trying-to-find-his-bondmate-by-clubbing-through-San-Jose’s-gay-underground-club-scene thing.

Finally, Al nods. “Fine, but, only until you tell him. He’s our Captain, he should know about your bond. He might even be able to help.”

Al’s voice is soft, and Tomas loves him a little for it. He nods. “Okay.”

“Come on, get into bed. You’re staying here tonight, so I can make sure you’re not concussed or something.” Al pulls back the covers on the bed Matt’s not inhabiting, and Tomas slips under the blankets without complaint. His jaw really is hurting, quite a lot. Who knew the club scene could be so rough?

When he closes his eyes, his bond is steel blue, dark and angry and jealous.

***

Tomas spends the next couple of weeks ducking Al’s glares and Matt’s unsubtle attempts to get Tomas and Joe in a room together. It’s not that Tomas doesn’t want Joe to know, exactly, but- it’s embarrassing, to form an anonymous bond, even more embarrassing to be going on three months without being able to figure out who he’s bonded with.

In the end, fate, or whatever powers that be brought him to San Jose in the first place, takes the decision from him.

Tomas knows it’s bad the minute it happens, the way his knee bends, the way it burns and shakes and crumbles under his weight. MCL and PCL, the doctors tell him. Surgery, and five-to-six months of rehabilitation, if he works his ass off.

“I always work my ass off,” he says, not sure if it’s in English or Czech. He’s a little drowsy, the world hazy around him. The doctor smiles, reaching over to press against his IV, and the world goes black.

***

When Tomas wakes up, he realizes a number of things at once.

He can’t feel his knee. In fact, he can’t feel his lower body at all, which is strange. He’s pretty sure he had legs before he fell asleep.

His mind is swathed in indigo, cobalt, and a dark, heavy strand of Shark’ blue. It feels familiar, safe, and he grasps onto that strand, squeezing it with his mind, holding on, desperately.

There’s a loud in-take of breath from his left, and he turns his head to take in the face of his Captain, looking tired and worried.

Tomas frowns. “Do I still have legs?”

Joe tilts his head, his brow furrowing, and then, suddenly, smoothing out with a small, shy smile. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” He tries to move his feet. Nothing happens. “I can’t feel them.”

“They have you on the good stuff.”

“Oh.” Tomas says, again, and struggles to sit up, just to make sure, and Joe helps him with a warm, heavy arm around Tomas’ shoulders. Tomas’ mind flares, and he isn’t sure if it’s the bond or the drugs, but, suddenly, the last few months are so, so clear. He gasps. “You, it’s- you.”

Joe’s face flushes. In Tomas’ mind, the cobalt strand pulses.

It’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Joe tries to pull back, surprise and something like fear on his face and in Tomas’ mind, but Tomas reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Joe’s wrist. “You didn’t tell me.”

Joe’s staring at the place where their skin is touching. He coughs, clearing his throat, but his voice still comes out rough, fragile. “I didn’t know. I mean, I guessed, but, not for sure.” He shakes his head, and Tomas reaches out, ignoring the IV in his elbow, and wrapping his free hand in Joe’s hair. Joe sighs, leaning into the touch. “You’re so young,” he whispers, and Tomas laughs.

“Not so young.” He presses against the indigo, the part that flared that night, months ago, when, Tomas knows now, they got off together, for each other.

Joe chuckles brokenly. “No, not so young.”

Tomas feels the drugs working through his system, pulling him under, and he tightens his fingers around Joe’s skin. “You will wait?”

“Yeah.” Joe looks up, his eyes flashing the same shades of blue that Tomas feels in his mind, and Tomas feels so stupid for not figuring it out earlier. “Sleep,” Joe murmurs, pushing on Tomas’ mind, and Tomas doesn’t register anything else.

***

“Joe?” He asks, before he opens his eyes.

“We sent him home.” That voice is familiar, and Tomas forces his eyelids open, dirty from sleep, to see Patty and Burner sitting at his bedside, playing poker. Patty puts down his cards, moving to catch Tomas’ hand as Burner leans back in his chair and stares at Tomas.

“He said-” Tomas sighs. English is a stupidly hard language.

Burner’s face hardens. “So it is you, huh? Joe’s bondmate.”

“Burner-” Patty starts, but Burner interrupts. 

“No, you know how miserable he’s been. If I had known-”

Patty sighs, turning to Tomas and squeezing his hand. “He was exhausted. We sent him home to sleep.”

“After what you’ve put him through, no surprise.”

Tomas’ brow furrows. He never meant to hurt Joe, wouldn’t have, if he had know, if he had- He feels the drugs pulling at him, and he reaches out, desperately, for his bondcenter. It’s quiet, cool, light blues, aching for him, but Tomas forces his eyes open. “He was miserable?”

“Yes.”

“So was I.” The drugs pull at him and he gives in, sinking into his bond.

***

“Patty and Burner are mad at me.”

Joe freezes, flashing ice in Tomas’ mind. “They’re protective. Ignore them.” He tightens his hold on Tomas’ arm, leading him into the den-turned-bedroom Joe had arranged on the first floor of his house. Tomas doesn’t know how he feels about staying here, but his knee isn’t at all functioning yet, and he doesn’t relish the idea of returning to the hotel.

“What did you tell them?” Tomas sinks onto the bed, elevating his knee and sighing with relief.

Joe turns away, busying himself with an ice pack. “That night you went to the club? You were pushing on our bond, while you were dancing with other guys, and-” His back heaves, and Tomas follows the ripple of his muscles under his shirt. “I didn’t handle it well.”

“I didn’t mean-.”

Joe shakes his head, turning to wrap the ice pack around Tomas’ knee. “My problem to deal with.”

“Problem I caused.”

“You didn’t know.”

“No.” Tomas shakes his head. “My brother, Jaroslav, he say I-” he shakes his head, unable to find the word, unsure if there is a word in English, and then Joe is there, leaning over Tomas, warm and heavy and real, and Tomas realizes, with a start, that he’s wanted this for months, he just hasn’t allowed himself to feel it.

“I didn’t want to force you into something you don’t want.” Joe shakes his head. “The bond, it’s- we’re not slaves to it. If you don’t want-”

“I want,” Tomas says, without pause. “I want. A lot.”

Joe leans down, slowly, pausing just above Tomas’ mouth. "If I start, I won't stop,” he warns. "Not with you."

A flash of steel blue, possessive and dangerous, arks through Tomas' mind and he arches up, aching for the feel of Joe, long and hard and so much bigger than he is. He wants to be possessed, to, maybe, do a little possessing himself, and he reaches up, wrapping his fingers in the hair at the back of Joe's neck. “Please.”

Tomas’ bondcenter flares to life, flooding his mind with more shades of blue than he ever thought possible, teals and greys and indigos, cut through by that warm, steady strand of Sharks’ blue. Tomas now understands it as Joe’s affection for him, the pulse of it, underlying everything else, and Tomas grabs onto it, holding it tightly to him as he body reacts to Joe’s, his lips warm and hospital-chapped, a little sluggish with the drugs still rushing through his system, but a lot willing.

Joe groans, pressing against Tomas’ length, before lifting himself bodily to lie at Tomas’ side. Tomas immediately misses the hardness of him.

“Sorry,” Joe breathes. “I can’t control myself around you.”

Tomas shakes his head, reaching for their bond, at the same time as he reaches for Joe with his hands, wishing, desperately, that he could roll over and pin Joe to the bed, force him to stay here, with him. “Not sorry.”

“You’re still injured.”

Tomas shrugs. “You are not.” He runs his hand down Joe’s body, the angle a little awkward, but Joe’s body radiates heat as it, unconsciously, arches towards him. Tomas stops at the zipper of Joe’s jeans, resting his palm lightly against Joe’s erection. “Jumbo Joe, does that mean-?” He lifts his hands, spreading them about a foot apart.

Joe groans. “Tomas-”

Tomas ignores him, undoing Joe’s belt and slipping his hand into the open v of the denim, brushing against Joe’s cotton boxers and the head of his dick. “Let me,” he whispers, then, “kiss me,” because the angle isn’t right and he wants Joe on top of him again, wants to feel the weight of him, the heat of his body.

Joe closes his eyes, and Tomas wonders what colors he is in Joe’s mind, even as he pushes all his feelings of _safe_ and _want_ and _pleasure_ towards his bondcenter. 

Joe stays still for a long moment, and then he’s pushing himself up, moving too fast for Tomas to track him, slipping his thighs on either side of Tomas’, resting his weight, carefully, on Tomas’ stomach.

“I never dared to hope,” Joe whispers, “that we could have this.”

Tomas lifts his neck, just enough to catch Joe’s lips, pressing _love_ and _yes_ and _mine_ into Joe’s mouth.

“Yes,” Joe whispers and, this time, when Tomas drops his hand to Joe’s waist, he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he lifts his hips, helping Tomas push his jeans and boxers to mid-thigh, allowing himself to press into Tomas’ hand with a low, desperate groan.

If Tomas’ system wasn’t so full of drugs, he would have come from that sound, alone. As it is, he contents himself with the feel of Joe in his hand - long and thick, already leaking onto Tomas’ thumb - and Joe in his mind - leaking indigos and dark sapphire blues across their bond.

Tomas’ fingers feel slow and uncoordinated as he fumbles around Joe’s dick, but Joe doesn’t seem to mind. His skin is burning, the veins of his cock jumping in Tomas’ loose fist, his mind pulsing and burning, not even seeming to notice that their rhythm is stuttered and unsteady.

“I came so hard that night,” Tomas admits, remembering the pillow, the feel of Joe’s mind against his, his own need, surging to meet Joe’s. He pulls those memories forward, pushing them towards their bond. Joe groans, dropping his head to Tomas’ shoulder and thrusting, erratically, into Tomas’ hand.

“Never so hard in my life,” Joe agrees. His mouth is hot against Tomas’ neck, and Tomas shivers, all the way to his toes.

It doesn’t take long, Joe thrusting against his stomach, Tomas pulsing around him in his mind, and then Joe lets out a strangled cry. He comes around Tomas, a push and pull that Tomas feels, intimately, in his mind, as clear as if he had come, himself. He moans, high and reedy, breathing harshly against Joe’s throat, until Joe takes his weight onto his forearms, hovering above Tomas’ body.

“Was that-?”

“Good.” Tomas says, then grins.

Joe shakes his head, but he can’t hide his grin, either. “Will be even better, when you can participate.”

“I participated.” Tomas points to his head, and Joe’s eyes go wide, his dick flexing against Tomas’ stomach.

“God.” Joe breathes deeply, then, with effort, lifts himself off the bed. “Shower.”

Tomas feels an instant spike of fear, and reaches for Joe, wrapping himself around the strand of Sharks’ blue still pulsing steadily in Tomas’ bondcenter.

“I’ll be back.” Joe leans over the bed to kiss him. “I’m not about to let you go, not now.”

Tomas feels the pulsing, blue truth of it, and he allows himself to drift off, wrapped around his bondcenter and the sounds of the shower in the next room.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you wanna chat about these two idiots, hockey, soul bonds, or anything else, please comment here or find me on [tumblr!](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/)


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